My Home

Looking up into the crowd, I see the blue and gold student section roaring, “let’s go blue,” as loud as they can in support of my team. It’s football Friday at my school, where I feel most at home. I look down and I smell the aroma of fresh cut grass drifting threw the air. WHISTLE! The helmets stop cracking together. Finally, I can wipe the sweat off of my forehead. My hand now has the stench of day old sweat. Looking to my left, I see the referee holding up the bright orange down marker. Second down, “Watch the pass!” warned coach Martinez. HUT, HUT it’s a pass to my man. Ripping out into my zone I get under my man and deflect the pass. Jawing at me, the receiver is hollering, “That’s a penalty!” Soaring threw the air; a yellow flag catches my eye. The referee shows the crowd that number 15 received and un-sportsman like penalty with his universal signals. Fourth down and long and all I hear is screams and coaches on the sideline shouting, “fake, fake, fake!” Putting my head down I sprint to the ball carrier, and I put my shoulder into his legs, sacrificing my body for a big W.

A close-knit group of guys are what we are when we step onto that football field every Friday. The field is my home and the coaches and all of the players are my family. With them, we are the strongest we can be. We can’t achieve our goal if we all don’t go hard every single play. “United we stand, divided we fall,” explains the sport of football completely. Being around these guys all day for six days a week makes everyone closer and more comfortable with each other. I feel that the coaches are my fathers and my teammates are my siblings. I would do anything for these men and I expect the same from them. When the season ends, the rest of the year all I yearn for is to be back at my home on the field of dreams.

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